


100 Strokes

by lilacsigil



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drabble Collection, F/M, Gen, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Sisters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-03-27
Updated: 2005-03-27
Packaged: 2017-10-25 16:50:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/272543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilacsigil/pseuds/lilacsigil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Black sisters brush their hair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	100 Strokes

When Bellatrix was small, her hair still in pigtails, her mother taught her a bedtime ritual.

“One hundred strokes,” she said, holding out a wooden hairbrush.

“Can’t you use a charm, Mother?”

“No, sweet one. Every stroke is a wish for beauty and love. One hundred wishes, all for you, every night. Doesn’t that sound wonderful?”

Smiling, Bellatrix took the brush.

Bellatrix stood tall in her wretched cell. The Dementors nestled close. With a handful of the damp straw, her bedding, she began to brush her tangled, bloodied hair.

She already knew beauty and love. What to wish for now?

 

\---

Narcissa sat before her mirror, and its cold voice counted the strokes of her hairbrush. “Ninety-nine, one hundred.” She laid down the unicorn-bristle brush.

“What are you doing, my darling?”

Her new husband’s voice was playful, and Narcissa smiled up at him.

“My hair. One hundred strokes.”

Lucius hefted the brush in his hand. “One hundred strokes?”

He grinned at his bride and, quick as a snake, had her face down across his lap.

“No!” Narcissa shrieked, dissolving into giggles.

“One!” Lucius barked, with a hearty slap of the brush on her bottom.

They didn’t even make it to seven.

\---

 

Andromeda still hadn’t given up her bedtime ritual. She brushed her thick brown hair with short, brisk strokes. Though she meant to stop, years of brushing her hair in exactly the same way always lulled her into a dozy serenity until she was done.

“Mummy?” Nymphadora, in her nightgown, was tugging at Andromeda’s sleeve. “Brush my hair, mummy.”

Andromeda turned to indulge her, but then stopped and gave the brush to Nymphadora, whose hair was curly and turquoise tonight.

“You’re old enough to do it yourself, now. One hundred strokes, every night. Every stroke is a wish, just for you.”


End file.
